


Had A Thought, Dear

by lmc291



Series: All the Ashes in My Wake [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Women, Battle of Winterfell, F/M, Fix-It, Magic, Queen in the North, S8E3, bamf Sansa, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmc291/pseuds/lmc291
Summary: There's magic still, in the Stark family. The North protects their own.





	Had A Thought, Dear

SANSA

 

The crypts were not the comfort they used to be. 

 

As a child, she stood here praying to any of the Seven that her ancestors found joy in one of the Seven Heavens. Her mother named her in the Light of the Seven and she could recite the Seven Pointed Star as well as any septa. She wanted to be just like her lady mother-- a fine southron lady who had a fair husband and equally fair babies. She wanted to live a life of comfort and leisure amongst the finery of court-- to live the stories her mother sent her to bed with. She never bothered to consider that her ancestors would prefer she pray for them before the heart tree in the godswood.

 

Her mother’s gods failed to protect them, though. Father didn’t keep them, so why would they bother stopping the greatsword from cleaving his head from his body? They didn’t shield Mother, or Robb, Bran or Rickon. They certainly didn’t shield her. 

 

Her trips to the Red Keep’s godswood began in an effort to find solitude and privacy. No one kept the Old Gods there and superstitions kept them out. The more she escaped there, the more she listened. The more she listened, the more she felt them-- felt the Old Gods in the winds rustling through the leaves, playing with her unbound hair, kissing her brow.

 

_I am the North and the North is in me._  That was her mantra and she clung to it. The Old Gods spoke to her-- told her she was going home. So when Petyr Baelish offered her a way out, she grabbed it with both hands. She wondered, later, if Baelish knew just whom exactly he was selling her to. The godswood wasn’t safe, and the crypts weren’t safe, but at least Ramsay knew that if he destroyed either, his stranglehold over Winterfell and the North would be broken.

 

In her brief moments of respite between his torments, she prayed and swore to her ancestors and her gods that she would destroy his blasphemous actions against them. She would take their vengeance for them. When it was done, she had statues commissioned for her parents and for Robb and Rickon. She wouldn’t commission any for Arya or Bran, because missing wasn’t dead, and she knew better than to tempt fate. Every day, she spent time before the likeness of each of them, seeking counsel from Father, forgiveness from Mother, strength from Robb, and hope from Rickon. 

 

Jon spent his time there, too, she knew-- struggling with the weight of the crown thrust upon his head. Perhaps like she did, he thought his forebears would speak to him.

 

The crypts had lost the level of comfort they once held for her, but she drew in that same strength from her forebears that Jon did and she cloaked herself in it as she barricaded the entrance behind her against the battle. The only ones coming in after her would be their doom. She took a torch and slowly made her way down to the others, pulling herself together in an image of quiet confidence. It was her job to maintain the calm for as long as she could. These were her people-- she couldn’t show fear. 

 

The murmurs of the women and children quieted as her footsteps echoed down the stairs. 

 

Tyrion looked at her when she reached the foot. “It’s started then, has it?”

 

Sansa swallowed and nodded. She watched as he popped the cork of his pilfered wineskin to take a massive gulp. He wiped the excess from his mouth with the back of his hand and walked back and forth, eyes continuing to stray to the ceiling above them.

 

She sat down, watching Tyrion’s agitated pacing. “I should be up there,” he muttered.

 

She carefully noted how everyone else was watching them. “There’s nothing else we can do. We can’t fight.”

 

“I can fight!” Tyrion was indignant. “I was at the Blackwater!”

 

“You lost half your face during the Blackwater,” Varys commented mildly from his seat next to the wall.

 

Tyrion shot him a look.

 

“What could you hope to accomplish that can’t be done by whoever’s out there?” Sansa knew he wanted to be useful, but Daenerys was right. His mind was too valuable to be wasted in a cheap death in an uncertain battle. 

 

“I could see something,” he insisted. “Make new plans. Anything.”

 

“We can’t do anything. That’s why we’re here,” Sansa tried to get him to see sense. “The truth is that up there we’d be liabilities. The bravest thing we can do is look that truth in the face. We don’t know what sort of pieces we’ll have to pick up when this is all over.” She won’t entertain the notion that they may not live to see afterwards.

 

She blinked at the peculiar look that stole across his face.

 

“Perhaps we should have stayed married,” he mused.

 

It was the first time in a long time that Sansa felt the warmth of affection for someone not her family. “You were the best of them, you know.”

 

She smothered laughter as his eyes widened. “What a… terrifying thought!” He stumbled over his words. 

 

“If we were still married, we’d probably both be dead already,” she observed. 

 

“Hmm, you’re probably right. Cersei would have found a way around my trial by combat gambit,” he agreed grudgingly.

 

“You were married?” Missandei asked.

 

Sansa looked down at her hands and then back up at Tyrion. “Yes. It seems like it was a lifetime ago.”

 

“It was a lifetime ago.”

 

And it was. She wasn’t a frightened child or a hostage anymore. She was the Stark in Winterfell, sitting in the heart of her stronghold. He was Hand to the Dragon Queen. 

 

The conversation tapered off as Tyrion took a swig from his wineskin. He offered it to her and she would have declined if it weren’t for the sounds overhead that told them the fighting broke through the walls. She took a small sip, wanting to take the edge of the fear off without losing her wits. Muffled sounds of heavy boots gave way to men’s screams. The children began fussing again, and the women resumed their murmured prayers. Through it all, Sansa kept her eyes on the stairwell leading to the door she had barricaded behind her. She would look her death in the eye when it came for her. 

 

The sounds of the battle drew closer. People started banging on the door, screaming to be let in-- for help or mercy or both. She firmed her jaw and looked at the two men-at-arms who were their last line of defense. “No one in until it’s over,” she reminded them.

 

They nodded shakily, “Right, Lady Stark.” 

 

When stone crumbled behind them, chaos reigned.

 

What Sansa feared would happen was happening. There were no good places within Winterfell to hide those who couldn’t fight. Though the Night King could raise the dead buried there, they were in limited supply and with only one entrance, the crypts were the most defensible. They had gambled on the stone of the tombs being too thick to break free from. 

 

They were wrong.

 

Everyone in the room scattered and their two guards were quickly overcome. Faster than she could even think, she grabbed the shoulder of Tyrion’s cloak and pulled him behind the statue they were sitting next to. There was a reason she was in front of her father’s image: he wasn’t there. 

 

Her heart thundered in her chest as she heaved for breath through the panic and closed her eyes against the screams. This was so much worse than Maegor’s Holdfast. These were her people. Her people were dying. Her family was killing them. She didn’t want to die. She squeezed her eyes shut against the panic and against the din and focused on Tyrion’s shallow breaths beside her. 

 

She felt the ghost of a kiss on her brow and a flood of knowledge shot through her veins. Sansa pulled the dragonglass dagger out of her belt.

 

She wasn’t going to let them die.

 

Tyrion looked at the dagger in her hand and then into her eyes, fear and sorrow plain on his face. She nodded-- he knew what she intended to do. He grasped her gloved hand and slowly brought it to his lips. She was breathless as they looked at each other. That gentle press of lips conveyed such intent, such regret. In another life, they could have been content together. Together, with both their minds, they could have done so much good.

 

Impulse came over her, and she darted forward to place a kiss on his ruined cheek. If her plan failed, she wanted him to know.

 

He drew his own dagger and she took a fortifying breath.

 

***

TYRION

  
  


“No!” Sansa’s voice rang out, echoing over the din of women’s shrieks and wailing babes. There was a power in it that washed over them all and made the little hairs on Tyrion’s arms stand on end. “You will not harm these people!” 

 

Silence slowly descended upon the crypt as one by one they realized that the dead ceased moving and straightened their posture in place. What magic was being wrought here? Tyrion’s breath caught as he gazed upon Sansa, resplendent in the torchlight, standing tall with shoulders squared between her people and their deaths. Only the slight shaking of her hands where they grasped the dragonglass dagger before her betrayed her nerves. Never before had Tyrion ever seen anyone look so queenlike-- not even Daenerys astride Drogon could compare to the ghost of the Crown of Winter on Sansa’s brow as she placed herself as their last line of defense. 

 

“In life, you were all Starks of Winterfell, sworn to protect these lands and the people in them.” The dead were listening to her and Tyrion could hardly believe his eyes. A glance about the room told him that similar expressions of shock were on Varys’ and Missandei’s faces. “I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard, son of Rickard, son of Edwyle, son of Willam, son of Beron, son of Starks who can trace themselves unbroken eight thousand years to Brandon Stark, the Builder.” She set her jaw and stuck her chin out proudly. “I am the Stark in Winterfell and,” she strongly enunciated each word, “you will defend us.”

 

The only sounds in the crypt were fussy infants and the hiccups of women trying to breathe through their fear. For one agonizing moment, Tyrion’s heart stopped. Would her ancestors heed her commands? He adjusted the grip on his own dagger just in case. If tonight was his night to die, he’d die fighting trying to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. 

 

He didn’t know whose gods to bless when the dead turned their backs to them to face the door in a protective circle, swords at the ready, but the exhale that escaped his lips was his prayer of thanks. His knees shook, and every limb tingled with adrenaline. How was this even possible? Magic was gone from the world. How could Sansa Stark command the dead?

 

The North was a wild place. Not even Aegon the Conqueror could bring the land to heel. Perhaps that was for a reason. Perhaps there was a reason the Starks maintained their position for so long, and as they tended the North, the North tended them. A covenant, perhaps. 

 

Such a thing would be impossible at Casterly Rock. No House that produced such people as his father and sister could ever forge such a strong connection with its land. Not for the first time he realized that the North was a thing unto itself.

 

Sansa still stood before them, eyes blazing. It was as if her own sheer willpower would win them the day. 

 

(A traitorous voice in the back of his head whispered that it was not in Daenerys Stormborn’s nature to place herself between her smallfolk and certain death.)

 

Suddenly, the risen Starks crumbled, collapsing like puppets with their strings cut. 

 

He reached up to place a hand on Sansa’s back and felt the air rush out of her. He was there, ready to steady her if she needed it. “Someone must have gotten to the Night King,” he observed quietly. Sansa’s responding nod was shaky. No doubt she was praying for the survival of her family, and he, too, was on pins and needles about Jaime’s welfare. 

 

They needed to plan. That was what he was good at. But he couldn’t plan until he knew their losses and he feared they were great. Perhaps he could consult with Sansa. It was obvious from the moment he set foot back in Winterfell that she had a head for logistics and her input would be invaluable. If he could properly navigate the tension between her and the queen…

 

A stray thought stole across his brain. 

 

They could make good partners. Perhaps, when this was all over…

 

Another voice was calling from beyond their barricade. 

 

It was Jon Snow come to release them.

  
  



End file.
